To Dream of a Highlander(15)

A shudder wracked her and increased in intensity. Though far from her position, she heard the cries of men as they fought for their lives. Fought for her life. Her stomach churned when the crashing swords brought her back to the castle and the moment she thought she too would be a victim of war. Arms clenched around her waist, she battled to control the trembling of her body but it would not cease. Her hearing grew muted and all she saw was bloodshed. She watched each sword swing with horrified fascination.

Finn fought savagely, his size easily matching that of the Norsemen. He lunged and parried, striking down two men with little strain. When a gargantuan man faced him, Catriona’s heart stuck in her throat. This man saved her and she had not even thanked him.

Whatever the future held for her, she at least hoped to be able to do that. His attacker took a large step forward and swung at Finn. He staggered from the blow and coldness gripped her, forcing a cry from her throat. The huge Norseman withdrew and raised his head toward her position. She clamped a hand over her mouth as he moved closer, his pace picking up—clearly realising who she was.

Or who she was meant to be.

Catriona scanned her surroundings, bile rising in her throat as the Viking drew nearer. His furs swung about, filthy hair trailed behind, and it felt as though the ground shook with his every footstep. She curled a hand about a loose rock and backed away, stone held aloft. By some miracle it did not slip from her clammy fingers.

Unable to keep her gaze from it, she stared at the bloodied tip of the attacker’s sword. The blood of a highlander. She had not seen it, but he must have struck down one of the men. Would he strike her down too? Or mayhap he would pin her to the ground and start what the other man never finished? The trembling in her hands increased and the desire to run made her legs judder but she held firm. Finn’s great courage gave her courage too. For these strangers who had shown her kindness, she must be brave.

The odour of the man reached her before he did. Just as he was to leap upon her, he darted sideways. The stone dropped from her fingers. She stared on as the Viking toppled to the ground. Only when he twisted did she realise Finn had tackled the man. They wrestled briefly but Finn easily matched his strength. With a blow from the hilt of his sword, he rendered him senseless, mayhap dead.

Catriona failed to summon any sympathy for the man. Only relief swam through her body, rendering her weak. She put a hand to the rocks for support. Finn clambered to his feet, a grin cracking his face, before turning to view the other Norsemen retreating. When he faced her, his smile dropped and he hurried to her side.

“Ach, yer white as a sheet and trembling like a leaf.”

She bit her lip and nodded, not trusting her voice to work.

“I told ye we’d no’ let ye come to harm, did I not?”

“Aye,” she whispered.

He sheathed his sword and she forced herself not to contemplate the blood dripping from it. With one hand, he enveloped both of hers and held them still, and with the other he tilted her chin up.

Blazing blue eyes, that could not even compare to a clear sky seared into her. The touch of his rough hands warmed her—made her skin prickle. Another violent shudder and he dropped her hands to take her into his arms. Though not the first time he had held her, this time she did not think him her kidnapper. She sank into the embrace. Without even thinking, she flung her arms around his waist and buried her nose into his chest. No tears came, which surprised her. Only awful images of blood and terror played behind her eyelids. The scent of man and sea, a confusing mix of musk and salt mingled and she drew it in. Beneath her hands, she became aware of taut skin and muscle. Gradually, the world returned to her, mostly in the form of Finn. The scratch of his linen and plaid made her skin sensitive to his touch. One hand had come up to her hair, pinning her to his chest while the other smoothed over her back, just above her rear. Each sweep of his fingers sent a spiral of tension into her belly. Gone were the awful memories. Instead she pictured those fingers elsewhere. On her skin, her lips.

Catriona jerked, but only moved a little, as his hands still held her tight. What was she thinking? His fingers on her skin? She barely knew the man. And not a few moments ago, believed him to be a Viking. He offered her comfort, nothing more and yet she now swooned in his arms like some damsel.

She tugged back and this time he released her. Hands clamped in front, she licked her lips. “I thank ye, sir. I owe ye a great debt, it seems.”

He flexed a hand and glanced at it briefly, his brow furrowed. “Ye owe me naught. Save yer thanks for yer betrothed.”

“Well, I offer my thanks regardless. Pray—”